


you go nowhere at all

by crownedcarl



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-08 08:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17383445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: Archie Andrews walks through the gates of the juvenile detention facility and something inside of Joaquin clenches, hard, before he manages to get it under control.





	you go nowhere at all

**Author's Note:**

> title from johnossi, _into the wild_
> 
> the implied abuse tag stems from the warden and his fun games, not the joarchie. this is a canon divergence fic bc i have no clue how long joaquin was sentenced to juvie or how long archie was ever really there, but ... i don't care, so lets leave it at that and maybe comment on this if you like it

The first time Joaquin meets Archie Andrews, it’s sweltering outside.

Pavement rippling in the distance, heat blanketed across his shoulders - that’s the kind of heat that drives Joaquin outside, hoping for a breeze. The scorch has everyone crowding at the community pool, or lingering by the fridge for a moment’s relief, but Joaquin walks to the drive-in looking for a spot of shade when he finds Archie by the drive-in, staring down at his feet, sitting in the dirt.

Joaquin thinks that Archie looks kind of pathetic, all alone and curled up, looking a second away from bursting into tears when Joaquin saunters up to him and plants his feet, hands shoved in his pockets, and asks, point-blank, “What are you crying for?”

Archie looks at him with a face that’s so long Joaquin almost feels bad for bothering him, cheeks blotchy from tears, the same miserable look Joaquin has seen in countless other Southsiders facing bad news and life sentences, pegging Archie for a crybaby that needs to grow up. “My parents are getting divorced,” Archie tells him, frowning like even he doesn’t understand why he’s even sharing that with a stranger, especially a kid decked out in Serpent colors.

“So what?”

Archie’s head tilts back with a frown, a glare aimed at Joaquin, eyes suddenly angry, his arms crossed against his chest and scowling when Joaquin stays where he is, unmoving, staring impassively down at Archie and his sweat-stained shirt. “It’s none of your business. Go away.”

“What, are you gonna make me?”

It’s not a threat, exactly, but Joaquin has always been contrary. Archie rises up unsteadily, like he’s been sitting there for so long his legs have gone numb. For a second, Joaquin actually feels bad for him, until he remembers that Archie has everything he doesn’t. Losing your parents is a fact of life on the Southside, but Archie acts like there’s nothing worse in the world than this, his first real taste of reality driving him down and keeping him there. “Just stop talking to me,” Archie demands, “Leave me alone. Please.”

It’s the way that Archie says please that makes Joaquin hesitate, looking him over with a newfound understanding, wondering if he’s going to be alright. “Fine, see if I care,” Joaquin sighs, turning around and walking back to his bike. “It’s going to rain soon, pretty boy. Might want to get home while you still can.”

He hears Archie’s soft “Thanks,” but doesn’t reply. Two years pass before Joaquin really sees him again, Archie showing no signs of recognition, stone-faced and somber, surrounded by people and achingly alone.

-

Archie had given him a look, this one time, back at Jughead’s impromptu surprise birthday party. He had looked halfway past tipsy, barreling right towards drunk, while Joaquin evenly met his eyes across the room and raised an eyebrow, wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve that kind of stare. It had made his skin prickle, an uncomfortable flush sweeping down his neck, mouth tight as he waited for some kind of acknowledgment, staring at Archie across a room packed full of rowdy teenagers.

Then Kevin had come closer, putting a hand on Joaquin’s arm, but even then, he hadn’t understood the spark in Archie’s eyes dissolving into nothing. Later, behind fences and concrete walls and bars, Joaquin recognizes the same stare in Archie’s eyes as he steps into the yard, wondering where the hell a kid like Archie ever learned that kind of hunger.

-

Archie Andrews walks through the gates of the juvenile detention facility and something inside of Joaquin clenches, hard, before he manages to get it under control.

It isn’t difficult to avoid Archie and his curious, startled eyes, at first, but Joaquin can feel the weight of Archie’s stare all the way through recess, dinner and showering. It lingers like a bruise, the awareness of Archie no more than five steps away from him at any given time, standing out like a sore thumb when he walks into the yard or the canteen, too soft for the gray walls and slabs of concrete that make a cell. Joaquin wants to grab him by the shoulders and scream, but he does nothing.

Doing nothing is easy, sometimes, especially when you’ve got everything to lose by taking a gamble on an almost-stranger, someone Joaquin has never really known. He does know Archie well enough to know that he’s no murderer, despite all the evidence, which means Archie is too soft to endure on the inside for long.

Joaquin knows a lot of things about what being on the inside is like. He’s heard the stories too many times to forget, knowing to stand up for himself but stay out of unnecessary trouble, already well versed in the realities of prison. He’s fit to survive for however long he has to, scowling at Archie as their eyes briefly meet, Archie’s gaze questioning and a little hurt.

Too bad, Joaquin thinks, later, his eyes seeking out the curve of Archie’s back as he stands under the sputtering showerhead. It would’ve been fun, getting to know him.

-

Despite his best intentions, freezing Archie out of his loosely-knit circle backfires.

Joaquin has always known that some things weren’t meant for him; the taste of Archie Andrew’s freckled skin is not something he can take for himself. Beyond that, Joaquin can’t protect him in any way that matters, but leaving Archie to fend for himself is probably the worst idea he’s ever had.

It’s not that Archie is all that much worse off than anyone else, but the thing about Archie is that he won’t fight someone he thinks doesn’t deserve it, too easily fooled by everyone’s sob story to retaliate when he gets shoved. All he does is talk, big eyes in an earnest face fixing on someone and trying to make them _listen,_ as if that could somehow make a difference.

It doesn’t. Joaquin doesn’t turn a blind eye, exactly, but he puts his back to Archie and continues to eat in silence. Prison is no place to start making friends.

-

He’s always been able to read people from nothing more than a glance, but Archie evades him at every turn. One moment, there’s something soft in his smile that makes Joaquin’s stomach clench, but then it disappears beneath a flinty stare, walls going up in a heartbeat when Joaquin’s snide comments veer a little too close to hurtful territory.

“Hey,” he says, watching as Archie turns, as the hunch of his back gets just a notch deeper, hands clasped in his lap. “You gotta toughen up. Don’t take everything so personally.”

“Don’t make it personal, then,” Archie sighs, one knee stretching out in front of him, settled on the grass where the last rays of the sun are still clinging to the green. “What did I ever do to you, Joaquin?”

There’s the million dollar question he can’t answer. It would sound ridiculous. _You made me want, and wanting something in here never leads anywhere good._ “You don’t belong here,” Joaquin says instead, wanting to remind Archie as his expression hardens that he means it as a compliment.

-

There’s no scenario where the two of them could actually be friends, but somehow, they’re a little closer than before. Eventually, even Joaquin breaks, letting Archie sit a little closer, laugh a little louder, shoulders brushing Joaquin’s as they walk across the yard to their table. It still takes Joaquin by surprise, the fact that Archie still laughs the way he used to, loud and awkward, like not even the prison walls can keep him down for long.

Suddenly, everything Joaquin has tried to resist feeling comes back to hit him like a sledgehammer straight to the chest, Archie’s laugh abruptly fading when Joaquin flushes and shifts away by an inch and a half. Fuck, there it goes, the instant awareness of that if Joaquin turned his head only a little, he could line his mouth up with Archie’s and kiss him, but that’s another fantasy that Joaquin can’t afford to spend too much time on. “You good?” Archie asks him, giving him a look that Joaquin can’t decipher. “You seem kind of on edge.”

All he wants to do is reach out and cup Archie’s jaw, thumb at the hinge of it, his mouth against Archie’s for a moment, if only to carry that memory with him into the coming months. He smiles at Archie, sharp and quick, bumping their shoulders together before rethinking, throwing an arm across Archie’s shoulders and tugging him a little closer, fingers landing in a loosely reassuring hold on Archie’s neck. This time around, he can afford the kindness.

“I’m always good,” Joaquin grins, heart beating fast as Archie ducks his head, a painfully shy smile curving his mouth, “Don’t worry so much.”

“You are,” Archie says, a different meaning there than there was before. “Good. You should know that.”

“Andrews,” Joaquin mutters, a warning edge to his voice, a fragile thread of hope winding around his fucking ribs like a noose. “Don’t.”

-

Archie is terrible at playing cards.

Joaquin wants to stop learning things about him, but it’s painfully obvious that Archie has never played poker in his life, looking more confused with every second that Joaquin spends explaining the rules. “You know what, never mind,” Joaquin finally sighs, putting his chin in his hand. “How about Go Fish?”

It makes Archie laugh that self-conscious laugh of his, the one Joaquin is the most familiar with, low and a little embarrassed. “Yeah, alright,” Archie says, folding his hands together, knuckles bruised where they peek beneath the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Joaquin doesn’t ask about it, pretending he never saw it. “Gotta pass the time somehow.”

Joaquin bites his lip until it bleeds. “There are other ways,” he says, careful and measured, glancing up at Archie as he shuffles the cards, hoping and praying that this doesn’t crash and burn before he even has a chance to live through it. “To keep occupied. Distracted.”

Archie’s eyebrows pinch together. “Like what?”

Joaquin has been told he’s good with his hands. You wouldn’t know it, watching him fumble the deck, suddenly too warm in the sunshine. “Like me,” he makes himself say, quiet enough that nobody else could overhear, like he’s offering Archie something dirty, something that could get him in trouble, but the truth is that it might. For a warden trying so fucking hard to keep everyone under his thumb, an escape from reality is the most dangerous thing there is. He’d crush it if he caught so much of a whiff of what Joaquin is proposing, letting the silence linger between them as Archie processes.

“Why, though?”

“Why what?”

Joaquin looks at Archie. Archie looks back, pink in the cheeks. “Why are you asking me? You don’t even like me, not really.”

“Yeah,” Joaquin agrees, “But that’s got nothing to do with it. Besides,” he adds, “I’m not hearing no. You want to?”

He watches Archie swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. There’s a shadow falling across his eyes and the bridge of his nose, a sheen of sweat shining on his throat, the long and delicate expanse of it. Joaquin pushes down every last shred of hope he has and pretends not to notice how it takes Archie several minutes to find an answer, nervously picking at the sleeve of his sweater.

“Yeah,” Archie whispers, “I want to,” and Joaquin smiles, bright and sharp, before nodding for Archie to follow.

“Lets go, then.”

-

It becomes more of a thing than Joaquin would have expected.

Him and Archie, the thing they’ve got going, it works. There’s no denying that. It gets a little dangerous, though, once Joaquin finds himself looking too much, being pulled into dark corners and hallways by Archie’s eager hands, terrified out of his mind of being caught but too swept away by the moment to really say no. He should, though, except that Joaquin has never wanted anything that was good for him.

He makes the attempt, at least. He figures he might as well, considering how little time he knows they have. The warden is a persuasive man and while Joaquin puts his hand beneath Archie’s shirt, he can feel the bruises and the cuts there, fingers skimming Archie’s tender ribs and feeling him flinch.

“You’re a bad idea,” Joaquin snaps without much heat, not missing the irony in him telling Archie that when it should be the other way around, the suburban golden boy chastising the Southside Serpent piece of trash that, despite all of his protest, is still clinging to the front of Archie’s shirt. “This is such a bad fucking idea, don’t you get it?”

Here and now, it’s a spectacularly stupid idea, but Joaquin can’t remember ever wanting anything more than Archie Andrews right here, right now. He wants to devour him. He wants to be recklessly used and tossed aside, light-headed and giddy, if only for a moment, but Archie can’t even do casual sex without some of that trademark sweetness shining through.

He kisses Joaquin’s jaw, kisses his cheek. Soft, like he wants to savor it.

“Maybe it is,” Archie says, canting his head down, kissing Joaquin back into silence. “Let's have another.”

Fuck, but Joaquin starts laughing. Archie isn’t quite smiling, but he’s almost there, a tentative hand on Joaquin’s hip rising a little higher, resting flat on his stomach, making the muscles quiver. “You really want to do this,” Joaquin asks, eyebrows raised, “In here, like this? With someone you don’t really give that much of a shit about?”

By in here, he means _in prison._ By like this, he means _like it’s nothing more to you than getting off._ Archie looks at him, teeth catching on his lower lip, eyes wide and bright and, despite it all, brave.

They’ve done a lot of things with each other, to each other, but the way Archie is practically shaking against Joaquin makes this different from those other times, more feverish. Archie wants so fucking much it makes Joaquin a little angry, sometimes, without really knowing why it breaks his fucking heart to see that bottomless want in Archie’s eyes.

“Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t _we?”_

Before Joaquin can begin to think of an answer, Archie says “I like you. I like being around you. Why isn’t that enough?”

Joaquin draws a blank. Why isn't that enough?

After a minute, all he comes up with to say is “Alright. Alright,” and then he leans forward, his chest against Archie’s, the warmth of him seeping through to Joaquin, his skin warm where Joaquin puts his hands beneath his shirt again. “Come on. Are you going to do something interesting or not?”

Joaquin pulls his hair, hard, tugging a fistful of hair between his fingers until Archie gasps against his mouth, lips slick and red, his lashes dark against the high rise of his cheekbones, something like a laugh exhaled against Joaquin’s cheek, delicate and playful in a way Joaquin can’t reconcile with the mess of a boy in front of him. “Yeah,” Archie says, tugging on the waistband of Joaquin’s sweats, bolder than Joaquin expected him to be. “I’ll give it a try, at least.”

Joaquin pauses. Normally, he wouldn’t, but knowing what he knows about Archie forces him to pull back and breathe, because Archie had never kissed another guy before he walked in here, which means he’s hopelessly new to being on his knees. “You don’t have to,” Joaquin forces himself to say, giving Archie the bare minimum of consideration that he can afford without looking like he cares too much, “I’m good without.”

“But I want to,” Archie says, grinning like he loves nothing more than a good challenge. “You want to maybe let me, already?”

Joaquin tilts his head back against the wall, groaning. “Fuck, fine,” he mutters, “Do your worst, pretty boy.”

He’s biting his lip, hard. It’s dim and dank in the fucking storage closet Archie pulled him into, the two of them short enough on time as it is, but Joaquin can’t resist threading his fingers into Archie’s hair and wishing they could really take it slow, do this properly, if only so Joaquin could look down at Archie on his knees for a minute longer. It’s stupidly hot, the way Archie works Joaquin’s sweats open and down his thighs, sitting back on his haunches for a moment to sigh heavily, shoulders rolling back. “You could use my name, for once,” Archie grumbles, but there’s still a smile on his face, slight and crooked.

He wants this, Joaquin reminds himself. _He wants me,_ he thinks, heat building in his cheeks, overwhelmed by the naked longing Archie keeps showing him, like nothing matters half as much as getting closer to Joaquin, beneath his clothes.

Archie works in silence. Funny, how he never shuts up when Joaquin wants him to, only quiet once Joaquin gives him something better to do with his mouth.

The first gasp that fills up the room surprises Joaquin, even though it comes from his own mouth, formed in his own throat. Fuck, he thinks, eyes squeezed shut. Archie has barely started and Joaquin already feels tension in his spine, at the top of his neck, in his jerking hips. Archie puts a hand on his hip, firm and warm, looking up at Joaquin with his bangs obscuring his eyes, laughing quietly.

“Easy. I got you.”

That, more than anything, makes Joaquin relax. He doesn’t trust promises, these days, but Archie says I got you and something in Joaquin quiets down, restlessness soothed into something manageable and distant. “I know,” he whispers, half hoping Archie doesn’t hear it over their heavy breathing. “I know, Archie.”

It’s easy not to think with Archie’s mouth on him. He’s got soft, slick lips. He’s got these wide, dark eyes that meet Joaquin’s in the low light, slipping closed once Joaquin’s hips buck off the wall, sharp and sudden, a stuttered groan filling the silence. His hands find Archie’s hair, both of them gripping hard, knowing there’s a mission and a knife days away from ending them and the little haven they’ve built for themselves, but that doesn’t matter, right now.

Knowing Archie, he’ll forgive Joaquin. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

“You’re good,” Joaquin tells him, voice lacking heat, coming out soft and unexpectedly tender, so fucking unlike him it makes Archie pause and glance up, concerned written all over his brow and slack, half-open mouth. “You’re so good. Don’t - don’t forget that.”

Archie smiles again. He does that a lot. Joaquin lets it go without comment, savoring the moment, knowing there won’t be many more to come, Archie’s hair sliding between his fingers, his breath hot on Joaquin’s stomach, the loudest fucking thing in the room, Joaquin’s thundering heartbeat pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.

-

At the beginning, Joaquin thought that there was nothing between him and Archie other than a vague awareness of their differences, them looking at each other, sizing each other up and silently thinking _you’re not my kind,_ but after a few weeks, things have been put into perspective. Archie doesn’t need to have lived his life on a line parallel to Joaquin’s, because familiarity is bred from understanding, which is bred from exposure, and Joaquin learns more about Archie in those short few weeks than he had known the entire year before.

Archie kisses softly, hesitantly, even though he’s good at it, better than Joaquin had thought he would have been. He always carries himself as if he’s smaller than his actual frame, scuffs his shoes against the ground when he’s nervous or when he’s lying, the complete absence of a poker face putting Joaquin at ease.

He’s going to die. Joaquin knows that much. If he doesn’t do it, someone else will, but at least Joaquin gives enough of a shit to make it clean and as painless as he can manage, worrying at his fingernail during breakfast, knowing he’s never handled a knife before.

It might be messy, it might be ugly. What the fuck is he going to do if it doesn’t go the way he needs it to?

“Hey,” Archie says, later, after they’re alone, Archie seated in front of Joaquin. “You with me?”

There’s the cue, Joaquin thinks, thoughts too loud for his head. Here’s the moment where he destroys everything that fucking matters, because he’s a coward, because he received an offer he couldn’t refuse. Yeah, he wants to say, of course I am, but lying to Archie feels somehow worse than the other thing, the thing with a rough handle and a sharp blade burning a hole in his pocket. Lying would make this so much more painful for the both of them, he reasons, looking at Archie, refusing to flinch from his concerned eyes.

One for the road, Joaquin thinks, hands finding Archie’s jaw, holding him in place as Joaquin surges forward and kisses him, this messy, too-hard meeting of mouths that makes Archie gasp, lips very soft against Joaquin before the inevitable shove, the distrust rising with every shallow breath that he takes. “Dude, what are you doing?”

I don’t know, Joaquin wants to say. Make me stop, he wants to say, but the words never come, something else building inside of him. “I’m sorry, Archie,” Joaquin says, because he is, he’s so sorry, but not sorry enough to put his own life on the line. “The warden said if I did this I’d finally ascend," but that's a half truth at best. What he should really be saying is _you would come back for me but I'm not that selfless. I want to leave, with or without you,_ and _it's going to be without you._

Archie has no idea what he means. He’s distracted, looking at Joaquin’s face instead of his hands, which gives Joaquin the opening that he needs, plunging the knife into that already bruised side that he’s touched too many times to keep count, squeezing his eyes briefly shut when he feels the blade slide into flesh, deeper than he thought it’d go. Deeper than he’s ever been before, he thinks, a faint sense of panic overtaking him.

This is it, the end of the road. “I’m sorry,” Joaquin says again, once the room is empty, once his escape is guaranteed. He clenches his trembling hands into fists, standing straight, walking out without looking back, slowly leaving the past six months behind, like they never even happened in the first place.


End file.
